


the diamonds in your fire

by a_r_b_u_s



Category: Gangsta. (Anime & Manga)
Genre: 10 Minute Writing Prompt, F/F, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Multi, Prostitution, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27998124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_r_b_u_s/pseuds/a_r_b_u_s
Summary: A writing challenge I'm doing with my RP partner. Each week a new prompt, ten minutes every day, and sometimes just a line or two.Every chapter equals one prompt.
Relationships: Worick Arcangelo & Nicolas Brown, Worick Arcangelo/Nicolas Brown
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. weapons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fridoline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fridoline/gifts).



Nic cherishes his katana. The leather-covered handle in his calloused palms feels sturdy. A materialized reassurance of his existence, his purpose in this world. Literally, it reassures his survival. Metaphorically, as it belonged to his mother before him, it reminds him of the flow of time. Much like death, much like the polished blade, it is cruel and beautiful at once. And what is time if not the drawn-out process of dying? In that regard, Nic can almost convince himself that it is a mercy to kill, and end someone’s suffering. 

He knows, most days, that this is bullshit.

His eyes wander, as they often do, towards the blonde boy sitting in the corner. Worick. His contractor. His master. (And this word, what an ugly connotation it holds. So ugly, in fact, that he knows it makes Worick sick to his stomach.) He is looking out of the window. From his position, he must be able to see the sky, for once unobstructed by tall, narrow buildings, clotheslines, street lamps or smog. In his hands, which Nic observes as much as he does the other’s face, as he does anything on this earth, Worick holds a gun. Sometimes, Nic’s whole, silent world seems to consist only of those hands and that face. Nic is so used to stare at him, to wait for a word and sometimes a command, that he forgets that Worick is just a kid, too. 

The beretta in Worick’s hand is a refurbished model from Constance’s gun shop, sold to him for the (very) small amount of cash he had in his pocket on the day Benryia fixed up the place for the first time. It is well-maintained, oiled and cleaned diligently. Nic finds himself surprised about the care and effort Worick puts into the weapon but if anything gives him away, its in the stolen glances, the subtle, startled halt in his step when he crosses the room while Worick rubs an oiled linen cloth over the barrel. 

One time, Worick catches his glance. Raises his eyebrows.

Nic signs: _You gonna stop stroking that gun any time soon?_

Worick blinks, then looks down at the gun in wonder. The smell of gun oil lingers. For a long moment, he seems to loose himself to a memory, or perhaps a plan. Worick seems to have the future mapped out in his head, an array of hundreds upon hundreds of possibilities, like some sort of super-machine from the future.  
Maybe, though, he’s just bullshitting his way through life like anybody else. 

"Oh, I didn’t even realize I was doing it“, Worick says. 

_Must be something Freudian._

Worick flashes Nic a grin. 

"Surely. You’ve been secretly at my stack of books again, haven’t you, Nicolas? Found anything else of interest, apart from overrated Viennese psychoanalysts?“ 

Nic knows exactly what Worick is thinking of: The stash of porn magazines stored away under Worick’s bed. Nic pulls a face and flips him off. He watches as Worick’s mouth opens wide, and in his silent world, imagines how the bellowing laugh of his blonde companion might sound. The beretta lies forgotten on the window sill as Worick jumps up, a spur of the moment decision, to accompany Nic on his nightly rounds.


	2. hair

For once, they are inside. For once, it is warm. Big Mama doesn’t like Twilights, and however friendly her manner towards Nic is, he knows she puts on a show for Worick. A thinly veiled one at that. Worick looks through her like glass and sends an apologetic smile in Nic’s direction. Nic just shrugs it off. 

They share a bed, not that they have to. But they are used to it by now; on the streets, they cuddle for warmth. 

Worick is Big Mama’s prized possession: he is the golden boy, as golden as the hair on his head, and the customers love him. Or so she says.  
She tells Nic this in a stage whisper, a hand clasped to her not insignificant bosom. Hiding a laugh behind a fan, a prop she carries like an actress in a B-movie. 

Now, Nic is content, or as content as he is able to get: Worick is slumbering next to him, face close. His breath fans over the pillow. Nic smells toothpaste. That is nice. He has a hard time sleeping; he doesn’t trust Big Mama, and he doesn’t trust any other occupant of the brothel. He keeps his wake with heavy lids. The rustling of sheets carries in the dark, still room as he moves his fingers through Worick’s silky-soft hair. It is growing rapidly, has already reached shoulder length. It frames Worick’s features into something more feminine, and Nic wonders if that’s why he does it: to become Big Mama’s perfect Golden Boy, a franchise to be sold to the highest bidder. 

Nic hates it, this thought. Hates it to his very core. Sometimes it feels like acid eating through his intestines.

Worick shifts his weight and Nic drops his hand onto the mattress. Even though Worick’s eyelids flutter, he doesn’t wake up. He readjusts, burying his nose into the blanket, then he lies still again.

Nic sighs softly, and allows his eyes to fall shut.

Nic watches Worick’s reflection in the window: The tip of his tongue protrudes from the corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed as he picks up strand after strand of Nic’s thick, bristly black hair and runs through it with a pair of old barber’s scissors. Nic doesn’t understand why Worick won’t allow him to just shear his head like he always does, after a few weeks of letting it grow out: It is effective, quick and over in five minutes.

But Worick is insistent to do it himself this time. 

And Nic gives in with hanging shoulders and mutiny on his mind, but Worick just grins, big bright victorious. 

Worick, Nic ponders as his companion keeps tugging at his hair, keeps making a fuss. He did so way back when, in a lavish home lingering with cold cigarette smoke and abuse, amongst books with so many pages and letters so small it makes Nic’s head spin to think about, even now.

He did so in dark alleyways, a hand driving over Nic’s head. Nic learned since then to identify it as a soothing touch, a caress. Something human beings do to each other for comfort.

And he is doing it now, telling Nic he wants him to look pretty, and, snidely, that he couldn’t be subjected to looking at Nic’s haphazard haircuts for a day longer.  
Nic raises his hand, waves. It catches Worick’s attention, his eyes flit to the mirror image of them both: Nic sitting on the chair, Worick behind him, both hands raised and in his hair.

_Are you going to be finished soon?_

Worick has the look of someone who has difficulty coming out of a stupor. Nic hasn’t known before how extremely focused he could be. Maybe the trick was to give him something to shut him up, for once.

"Soon.“ The word forms on the mirror image of Worick’s mouth. His blonde hair falls over his shoulders, it is long and looks unkempt.  
Maybe Nic should buy Worick a brush, one of these days. 

He huffs at the intrusive thought, rolls his eyes at Worick to make sure his annoyance is brought across adequately, earns a grin, and then continues to sit still.  
And in fact, there are worse things than to be succumbed to a haircut. 

Slightly worse, at least.


	3. pain

Face drawn and taught, it was a grotesque masque, almost comical in its silence. The tendons of her neck protruded, her mouth wide open in a cry that was lost to Nic’s deaf ears. Her legs were bent at the knees, flapped open grotesquely wide. Blood and other liquids pooled onto the sheets, too much so it no longer soaked into the fabric. Instead, it dripped, overflowing, onto the tiled floor.

Nina, a study of superficial calm, moved from caressing the woman’s head – hair dark with perspiration clinging to her forehead – to patting the back of her claw-like hand, which made to grab for the little girl’s hand in an instant. A look of pain shot over her young face. Her fingers turned purple in an instant, maltreated by the tight grip. Nic sensed her fluttering nerves under the professional façade; subtle vibrations running through her nervous system, electricity crawling under her skin. He moved his hand, first to the young girl’s shoulder, and then to her hand. The woman would not let go at first, but after a moment, she clung onto his hand instead. Her breath went heavy, quick and in a tightly-kept rhythm. From in-between her legs, his position crouched, Doctor Theo shook his head, raised it, and though Nic saw his lips move, he could not make out the words from this angle. The deep crease on his forehead told Nic everything, though. In front of him, the woman’s mouth stretched even wider. The corners of her mouth must surely tear, Nic thought, stupefied by the sight of her helpless struggle.

And all throughout, the odor of shit and piss, of blood, like a bad omen.

Is this how it is supposed to be, Nic wondered, dwarfed by the horrendous beauty of birth.


	4. winter air

Breath fans out as the man speaks, a white cloud visible like a sign, a lifeline, like a fluttering heartbeat and the spray of arterial blood of a fresh wound. And Worick’s hand finds the other’s neck under the wool scarf, slides up until it cups his jaw and then he draws him in, catches the next breath with his mouth as he tastes, a pain like frostbite somewhere near the cage of his ribs and the man kisses back, hard, greedy.

Half an hour for fifty, that’s a lot of money to ask to suck cock, but hey, Worick has a reputation to maintain and two mouths to feed.

The cold bites his face and leaves traces, cheeks reddened, the tip of his nose too as he enters their apartment. Nic lounges on the couch, sees him enter from the periphery of his vision and turns his head away.

Worick, fake smile oncoming, straightens his mouth, catches the words that want to come unbidden. Nic wouldn’t hear, would he? The helpless anger, the frustration.

What do you expect me to do, he wants to shout, wants to grab Nic by the collar and shake him until he sees sense, until he understands, until he stops sulking like a big fucking baby.

Maybe if he did do that, Nic would grabble with him, pin him to the floor, Nic with his strong arms and strong ideas of how Worick should behave and shouldn’t, and Worick knows it is his kiss he needs but won’t get because, because, just _because_.

He turns, enters his room and smashes the door shut with a bang that sends a dog outside into a barking frenzy, but Nic won’t hear, Nic won’t know, even when Worick takes the pillow and stuffs his face into it and screams, Nic remains oblivious in the next room, caught in a world of his own, probably high again already, for no reason at all but because he likes to not have to feel anything at all.


	5. night sky

He gazes up into the blackened sky which is littered with stars, strewn across its canvas like an afterthought, like glitter-confetti, silver and beautiful. He takes a full breath, deep, feels his stomach expand with it and holds. From behind him, above, the music sounds dull and nice and as inviting as the laughter, the collective hubbub of voices and glasses clinking.

An arm wraps around his shoulders, surprising him. He needs to turn his head because of his blind eye, only to find Nic’s grinning face right next to him, a beaming close-up of a happy shark, sharp teeth like a wolf and Worick’s own features twist and stretch into a smile, and then he laughs as Nic pulls him in close, arm flexing, and rubs his knuckles over Worick’s head.

"Hey, you sucker“, he says, trying hard for a pout at Nic’s uncharacteristically exuberant expression, with his grinding knuckles ruining his hair. But Nic doesn’t give a shit, of course, and makes sure to produce a straight up nest before Worick can wriggle himself free of the other’s hold.

"What the fuck, Nic“, he says, trying in vain to straighten his braid. Even without a mirror, Worick knows he must look ridiculous now.

Nic shrugs in comical exaggeration, points at Worick, then points at the lit apartment windows behind them.

"I’m coming“, Worick replies. "I just wanted —"

He waves the thought away, waves Nic’s curious glance away, that turns into a smirk really fast. Now Nic is pointing into the night sky, to the full, round moon that shimmers so prettily.

He forms a heart with index fingers and thumbs of both his hands and wiggles his eyebrows.

Worick, who is not used to seeing Nic this happy, cannot help himself but laugh.

"Yeah, fuck you too“, he replies and blows Nic a kiss.

Nic rolls his eyes, plucks at the sleeve of Worick’s parka and Worick relents, steps to follow Nic back to the party when another figure emerges from the entrance way to their apartment.

"Hey, you two!“, Alex calls, waving. She wears a satin-red Santa-dress that hugs her curves tight, the red-white hat that Theo gave her cockily askew on her head, waves of dark hair curling down from under the white plush rim onto her shoulders. With the light in her back, she looks stunningly gorgeous, and Worick gawks.

"Fuck, did I already tell you how hot you look tonight, Alex?“, he asks, and she giggles.

"Sure, Worick, plenty of times. You, on the other hand …“ She points at his hair and Worick realizes it must be worse than he initially thought. He sends Nic the patented gaze of death. Nic sends back a grin.

And Alex gestures.  
"Guys, _please_ , come on. It’s freezing outside!“

"Yeah, yeah, we’re coming“, Worick says, and now it’s him who pulls at Nic’s arm. They catch up to Alex and together the three of them reenter the apartment, which is hot and positively crowded with people. In the crazy haze of blinking Christmas lights they are swallowed up by the hubbub, and even if eggnog gives Worick the worst hangover, he still drinks too much of it with Chad, watching Nic goof around with Nina and Alex bustle from guest to guest to offer snacks and cheap wine and friendly words.

Life, Worick thinks to himself, isn’t half bad sometimes.


End file.
